


Take What You Can

by rhymeswithmonth



Series: Pirate AU [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Charles is a Pirate Captain, Charles is the Damsel, Damsel in Destress, Dashing Rescue, Logan is a monk, M/M, Moira is badass, Raven is Badass, Sean in a dress, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 18th Century and Charles Francis Xavier, eldest son of the seventh governor of the colony Westchester, kin of old-world kings, captain of the vessel Mystique, has been found guilty for the crimes of theft, kidnapping, and piracy, and has been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. His loyal crew have other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take What You Can

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a scene from the book Piratica by Tanith Lee.  
> I did a piece of art which shows what the characters look like in this story which can be found in my deviantart gallery, username rhymeswithmonth.

Armando sneezed violently once, twice, three times in rapid succession. A few people glanced at him distastefully, but the majority of the crowd ignored the sight of the bent old slave hobbling slowly along the main road. He felt his nose tingle again from the stray grains of flour that drifted out of his hair, but managed to restrain another fit.

It was sweltering under the thick rags that he'd draped himself in. But the disguise wasn't about comfort, he reminded himself sternly. He'd fashioned the costume for premium practicality, the loose tatters nicely disguising the saber strapped to his hip.

The sneezing was unfortunate, as it drew attention. But the authorities were looking for a strapping young negro, not a decrepit elderly one.

Worst of all was the slave collar clamped around his neck. He had the key, of course, hidden carefully away in the seedy room that he'd rented at the tavern across town, and knowing that he had control was the only thing that made it bearable.

He hated the collar and everything it stood for. But mostly he hated the familiarity of its weight. The crudely wrought iron settled against the old scar tissue like a long lost friend. It was necessary though, the cherry topping Armando's disguise.

Because they were looking for Charles Xavier's crew, and everybody knew that the man owned no slaves. When he'd found Armando years ago, starving and terrified under the pier in Westchester colony, Charles, barely older than Armando's then eighteen years, had taken one look at him and smiled. Such a small thing, but it had been the first friendly face directed at him for over a decade, and from that first moment Armando had vowed to follow this man for as long as he lived.

Charles had held out his hand and pulled Armando, weak with hunger, to stand on his bare feet. He remembered the hazy first impression of the pale, blue-eyed boy, short and slender beneath his fine frock coat. He'd thought the boy to be younger than him, judging by the wide-eyed innocence that lit up his face. When he'd spoken it had been in a cultured voice of an old-world aristocrat, deeper than his boyish face would suggest, and he'd had to repeat himself several times before Armando had responded.

"I want you to join me, my friend," the polished young man had said gently, most likely leery of Armando's tensed pose, ready to fight tooth and nail for his hard-won freedom, "I can protect you from the men hunting you. You will never again know slavedom if you follow me. You will be an equal amung equals."

There were no words for what Armando had seen in Charles Xavier's face that had made him lower his guard and place his calloused hand in the smaller, milk smooth one. But it had won the man his utter loyalty for the rest of his days.

And it was out of loyalty that Armando donned the collar that he'd sworn to never again wear, strapped on his trusted saber, and started his long, limping journey to the Westchester gallows, ready to die if that was what it took to save the man who'd take him in all those long years ago.

***  
Alex's only regret was leaving Scotty so soon after finding each other.

Because there was just no way that he was coming out of this alive. No, Alex had used up every chance that the world owed him, and more. Hopefully this last good deed would be enough to repay whichever god had decided that he deserved to live this long.

Alex wasn't exactly the most devout of men, but just for the hell of it he paused a minute to pray for one last miracle. 'Not for myself,' he insisted, 'This one is for Charles. It's all I ask, just let him get away.'

Alex felt reassured by the weight of his pistol tucked into his belt. He'd taken Sean's as well, as the younger boy snored blissfully unaware in the barn that they had taken refuge in after they'd broken out of the prison.

Hopefully if Sean or Scott woke up they'd think that Alex had gone off to get drunk and find whores. It wasn't that wild of an assumption after all. Hopefully Sean wouldn't notice his missing pistol. Hopefully they wouldn't worry enough to look for him until morning, and by that time Alex would likely be dead.

His scalp itched horribly under the powdered wig he'd taken off the constable whose uniform he wore. There was a smear of pink where blood had rubbed off the man's head wound, but it was mostly hidden if Alex tilted the black felt hat just so.

Impersonating a member of the military, on top of the charges of piracy, theft and vandalism that he already had pinned on him would mean certain death when he was caught. It would be worth it though, if he could just take down enough of the guards to give Charles a chance to run. And what was a better way to infiltrate an execution than to dress like an officer?

He didn't see, if Charles was so damn good at getting people out of jail, why he could bloody well break himself out. But it was twice now he'd freed Alex, hell, he owed the man everything he had, his freedom, his home, his brother, the shaky friendships that had taken so long to form with his crew-mates, now it was Alex's turn to free him.

As planned, he got into the arena without a hitch. He even managed to push through the mob and get right up next to the scaffold. He gripped the handles of the pistols so tightly that his knuckles ached, and sent a silent apology to Scotty, safe and sound all the way on the other side of town, and prepared to leap at the nearest guard.

***  
Most of the time Scott hated being the youngest out of the whole crew. It meant that the others were always talking about things that he didn't quite understand, or going into town without him to taverns that he wasn't allowed in, and he had to stay with Armando on the boat. Not that he didn't like Armando, but no matter how often Charles claimed that it was important for someone to "guard the ship", Scott knew that they just wanted him out of the way to spend time with those painted-up ladies.

But one good thing about being so young is that no one suspected him of sneaking into an execution to free the doomed prisoner.

He knew from years of experience that people hated to see homeless children, and therefor tended to ignore them. So all Scott had to do was roll around in some mud, tear up his clothes a bit and presto, he was invisible.

With his skin and hair thoroughly caked in dirt, he looked like any average street urchin. If anyone had bothered to look close enough, they might have noticed the awkward way he was walking, as if he was hiding something large and cumbersome in his trousers, but since looking generally meant seeing, nobody did. So Scott snuck unhindered into the arena.

His plan was simple, and also very exciting. He'd sneak into the section of the stands where the governor was sitting with his wife and son, and he'd hold them hostage until they let Charles go.

He'd rather he had a pistol to do it with, but Alex had taken his when he snuck off to get drunk and knowing Sean he was probably sleeping right on top of his. So he'd had to settle with filching Sean's sword. It was really rather difficult to sneak it into an execution, or it would have been if Scott hadn't had such an ingenious plan.

He'd get caught once Charles got away, and Alex would be furious, but that was okay. Since Scott was just a kid, they wouldn't execute him, so that was another reason he was the best one to free Charles. They'd just send him to another orphanage and it would be easy for Alex to get him out again. Charles would help, he'd done it the first time after all, and reunited him with his big brother.

Determined, Scott crept up the stairs leading to the Governor's box. After today he'd be a hero, and that was worth a few days stuck in an orphanage.

***  
Sean's day wasn't exactly going smoothly.

First of all, his pistol had gone missing. That in itself wasn't all that worrying, as Sean was a man aware of his own faults, one of which being his tendency for being scatterbrained and misplacing things.

But his sword was gone as well. Sean wouldn't have misplaced his sword. He loved that thing, kept it on him at all hours of the day, and would most definitely have noticed it gone. So stolen. He'd always suspected that Alex was jealous of it, he didn't blame him at all, it was a magnificent weapon. The blond had on more than one occasion remarked that such a fine work of smithery deserved to be wielded by someone who didn't "screech like a banshee" when storming into battle.

Sean stood by his belief that a good battle-cry is crucial to winning any fight.

But Sean's granddad had made that sword especially for him. And with as many rambunctious siblings and cousins as he had, being acknowledged by the patriarch in such a way was a rare treat. So yes, his sword was very important to him.

On a normal day, losing it would have warranted an urgent search of the area until the thing was found, but as it was Sean had a pretty pressing deadline. So he ignored the fact that he felt basically naked without his sword and slipped into the disguise he'd collected from various laundry lines.

The outfit could be worse. Not much worse, but all the same he told himself that it could be worse. Because Sean has always been one to look for the silver lining. Like now, and like when he decided to rescue Charles by himself. Sure he'd get caught and hung, but hey, at least Charles will be free, and Charles had so many more people counting on him than Sean did.

So Sean told himself over and over that his disguise could be worse. For example, the dress was relatively plain, minimal lace at the sleeves, the skirt a dark maroonish paisley with a matching shawl. Around his head he wrapped a jade-green scarf in order to hide he distinctive colour of his hair. The gold tassels fell into his eyes annoyingly. He replaced his customary small hoops in his ears with much larger ones, and grabbed a bead necklace from an unsuspecting shopkeeper.

For additional effectiveness, he added a bundle of rags wrapped in a mostly-intact blanket, and cradled it as one would an infant. Nobody would suspect a woman with a babe, and the bundle would be useful in a fight, to throw at an opponent to obscure their sight.

A fight that her undoubtably lose without a weapon.

But Sean went anyway, determined to do something. If he could even just hurl himself at the executioner, Charles would have a chance. And a chance would be all that he needed because he was brilliant. He'd escape.

Sean grinned to himself and hugged his faux-infant tighter. Oh Alex would be so jealous when he hears the tale of his valiant rescue, that he'd surly wish he'd thought of it himself.

***

Hank's hair was blue.

It was the unfortunate side effect of the hurried dye-job he'd attempted on himself, which had gone disastrously and colourfully wrong.

He'd been going for black. Instead, his naturally mousy brown hair was now dark cornflower blue. Just what he needed when he was trying to blend in with the crowd.

As was to be expected, the guards posted at the entrance to the arena took one look at him and burst into laughter and waved him away with the butts of their rifles. At least they didn't suspect him of being one of the escaped crew members, but this was hardly any better. How was he supposed to break Charles loose if he couldn't get close enough?

Hank squinted up at the brick wall that surrounded the gallows, and longed desperately for his spectacles. With his horrendous eyesight it was impossible to tell if the dark smudges scattered amongst the brickwork were acceptable footholds or simply darker stones.

But his beloved bronze spectacles would undoubtably be a dead giveaway to his identity. Glasses as fine as his were rare, and they'd belonged to Brian Xavier before Charles had given them to Hank. With the modified attachments that served as magnifying lenses that tucked ingeniously to the side were invented by Xavier the senior himself, intended to aid in the study of microscopic marine life.

Charles had given then to him after Hank had put them all at risk when he'd failed to spot a massive piece of driftwood while taking his turn on watch. They'd only avoided being sunk because Alex, at the wheel had seen it at the last minute, and managed to turn the boat in time. The hot-tempered young man had shouted profanities at Hank for an entire five minutes before Charles came up on deck and calmed him down.

When Hank explained to the young captain that he could barely see more than a couple feet in front of his face, the man had been immediately understanding. "Oh my friend," he'd murmured, eyes painfully earnest as he'd rooted through the trunk of his father's trinkets to find the marvelous spectacles, "You should have told me! Here, take these. My father was nearly blind as well when he was alive. I, thankfully inherited my mother's flawless sight, and have no need for these. Take them, I insist."

From that moment on Hank had kept the glasses with him. But this mission he was on was very possibly suicidal, and therefor too risky to even think of bringing such a precious gift along. Unfortunately that left Hank virtually blind, and with blue hair to boot. And it was imperative that Hank get close to the gallows in order for his plan to work.

He patted the plain leather jacket to make sure the smoke bomb that he'd spent all night constructing was still safely tucked into the inner pocket. If he could just get over the wall then he could throw it into the crowd, giving him time to scramble up the scaffolding and cut Charles loose.

Hank took a deep breat and grasped the edge of one of the bricks. He had to try.

***

Charlie had better damn well appreciate the sacrifices Logan was making for him. The burly man scratched roughly at his cheeks, leaving bright red lines over the smooth skin. For the first time since he'd hit puberty Logan was clean-shaven.

And it wasn't just his face. Oh no, Logan was totally bald. He was bald and looked like an absolute clown in the too-small monks robes he'd stolen off a church clothes line. Sacrifice number two, he'd stolen from a god-damn church!

Ridiculous though he may look, Logan had to admit that the robes were very good for stashing knives. His six beloved daggers were all well within reach in the billowing sleeves.

The people around him were giving him questioning looks, and the guard at the door actually stopped him with a concerned look, trying to dissuade him from entering because the spectacle inside would be upsetting for an esteemed clergyman.

Logan stifled the urge to snap at he man to fuck off, instead bowing his head and spouting some bullshit about absolution and forgiveness and some crap. It worked like a charm and Logan was motioned in with the rest of the mob.

He didn't have a plan beyond grabbing hold of Charlie, probably stabbing a few bystanders, innocent or not, as a distraction and making a break for the exit, swinging his knives to clear the way.

The kid would be upset with him if he killed people, but Logan would do what he had to. After all, he'd killed plenty of people before, it was only after this crazy kid had approached him with his fancy talk and insane ideals that he'd adopted his policy of no fatalities. Only for Charlie.

The kid was crazy, but brilliant here was no doubt about either. The idea of stealing cargo from the corrupt trading companies was one thing, the pledge to not kill anyone along the way was another. Logan had dismissed him at once as a loony and gone back to his beer, but the kid had persisted.

Eventually, after much nagging, Logan had found himself on a dinky little boat crewed by damn children. For fucks same the first mate was a damned woman! Bloody bad luck right there, even if she could fight as dirty as any man Logan had even met. Charlie's little gang were each as crazy as their captain, but for some reason Logan had stayed.

And now he was risking his neck to save the idiot. Well, It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go. His career was long over, his beautiful Japanese junk was at the bottom of the Indian ocean, his beautiful Japanese wife and unborn child along with it. This gig with Charlie and his mad crew had probably been the only thing that saved him from a slow death by alcohol. He owed it to the kid to return the favour.

***

The crowd parted for Raven like the sea before Moses. Her knee-high boots clacked purposefully against the cobblestone as she strutted toward the gallows, head held high.

None of the townspeople dared to stop her, but that didn't mean that they didn't stare. She couldn't blame them, she knew she cut quite the figure. She wore men's clothing, but no longer did she pretend to be a man herself. That was the old Raven, the timid, lonely girl who Charles had found in his family stables long before all this had started.

She'd hated her gender then, hated it for the limitations her femininity had set in place the moment she was born to the parents who didn't want her. At first it had simply been the fact that she couldn't run and play outside with Charles that had set her fuming. After all, she was faster, could climb higher trees, and cried much less than him, so why was it that she had to stay inside and stitch while he got to learn exciting things like how to ride a horse and how to fence.

Each year that passed brought new insults. Her monthly bleedings were brutal, gripping her with twisting cramps and splitting headaches for days. The maids all told her soothingly that it wasn't always so painful, that it was most likely the early years of malnutrition that caused her menstruation to come so late and with such vengeance. Raven hated every minute of it.

The lengthening hemlines of her dresses tangled around her ankles when she ran, the tightening coursets left her winded after the shortest of walks. her long blonde hair was an endless source of frustration and one day she'd had enough and took a knife to the waist-length tresses.

The household had been horrified, she recalled fondly, when she'd shown up for breakfast sporting a choppy head of inch-long hair. She'd been banned from going into town until it grew to a more appropriate length. And then the roots had grown back inexplicably carrot-red. Raven probably would have been kicked out altogether if Charles hadn't pleaded that she be allowed to stay.

When they'd run, finally, she's abandoned the cumbersome hooped-skirts in favour of plain breeches and men's blouses. She kept her now entirely red hair short and bound her breasts. People assumed she was a particularly pretty boy and she didn't bother correcting them.

For a brief time she was content with her life as Charles' brother and first mate. Then Erik had come and brought with him her femininity, rushing back full force. He'd been so very male, had listened to her, really listened in ways that Charles had never been able to, and said all the right things in all the right places.

The emotions she felt for the dashing newcomer made her infatuation with Charles seem so silly and juvenile. She loved Charles, and always would, but she'd wanted Erik with terrifying fierceness.

Erik's betrayal before she could act upon her urges had hurt, but something in Raven thrived after he was gone. Now she wore no corset, but the belt around her hips outlined her figure, allowing no questions about her gender. Her sapphire hued breeches we're tight enough to hug every curve, and the lacy neckline of her blouse was left unbuttoned and gaping to reveal the pale curves of her breasts.

Topped off with an elaborately embroidered silver and blue waistcoat and jacket, buckled boots, gleaming rapier and a gaudy plumed hat, Raven knew that she looked dashingly scandalous. The ideal blend of masculine power and feminine mystique, she had finally found herself.

Now, she had a fool of a captain to rescue.

***

Charles Xavier wished he could say that he would die with no regrets.

That would, however, be a lie, and despite the hateful rumours people spread about him he absolutely detested lying.

For example, Charles regretted that he hadn't requested a jacket for the short walk from the prison doors to the waiting noose. The gallows were purposely situated within the walls of Westchester jail for maximum convenience, but it was taking quite a long time for the audience to get settled, and then the judge would read out the list of offenses and the preacher would read him his last rights, all in all it would probably be a good half hour before Charles died. In the meantime, the air was rather chilly and his unadorned blouse wasn't thick enough to protect against the breeze.

Charles also regretted that he would never get to taste the new Indian tea that he'd just liberated from one Dutch trader on their last raid, the blend had smelled heavenly. He regretted that his compilation of notes documenting his brief career as pirate captain was likely to rot away under the floorboards of his captured boat, his tale never to be completed. He regretted that the chessboard in his room would remain forever frozen in the midst of a very good game, outcome never to be decided.

He regretted that he hadn't told Raven how beautiful she was one more time, that he hadn't been able to make Angel feel like she truly belonged with them, that he'd been unable to bring Gabriel Summers home to Alex and Scott, that he could no longer uphold his promise to keep Armando safe, that he wouldn't live to celebrate Sean's seventeenth birthday, they'd been planning a party for months. He regretted that Logan was losing yet another loved one and that now he would be just another cause of the man's spiraling depression.

And Charles regretted so many things pertaining to Erik. Yet, looking back he knew he'd do it all over again. Because he was a fool, and apparently a masochistic one.

Charles recalled with disgust Sebastian Shaw's trial. Charles had sat a the end of the back bench, shackled hand and foot, waiting his turn to mount the podium while first Shaw, and then his crew had been read their charges, and one by one been deemed innocent.

Unlike Charles, Shaw had many witnesses come to his defense. His wife had managed to use their plundered fortune to hire a good lawyer and almost certainly to bribe the judge. A dozen people had come forth with glowing character references, including one of the officers who'd been in charge of transporting him from Cuba, all touting the man's goodness of spirit and charming personality. Each insisted, with the motivation of more bribes doubtlessly, that there was no way that Sebastian Shaw, decorated commander of the British Navy in the Caribbean, could possibly be the murderous Kapitän Schmidt, most notorious Pirate ever to come out of the German Confederation.

So Shaw had walked. Everything that they'd endeavored in the past few weeks to bring the man to justice was for naught.

If only Charles hadn't stopped Erik from killing the man on that beach. If he had just shed his pride for that moment and stifled his distaste for murder, Charles wouldn't be here, standing with a noose around his neck. He'd be back where he belonged, sailing the open sea with Raven at her place as his right hand.

(And Erik at his left, right beside his heart.)

When Charles had taken his turn in front of the judge, nobody had come to defend him. Everyone who cared enough was a wanted felon, and therefor unwelcome in he courtroom. He stared across the room at the empty seats that would have belonged to his mother and stepfather if they'd cared enough to show up. They hadn't even hired a lawyer for him.

So Charles had stood alone as the judge announced his sentence. Hung by the neck until dead and all that.

At least, and thank god there was an at least, the others were free. His beloved crew, more like a family than employees, they were free. That last night in the jail, when the warden had dismissed Charles' request to dine with his crew for the last time, he had leaned against the bars and said his farewells.

Raven, the daft, beautiful girl, hadn't cried. But he had recognized the set of her jaw for what it was. Since they were children he'd learned to live with that look, of a defiant girl faced with finishing her vegetables, or being confined to the servant quarters to help with the washing while Charles and Cain got to ride into town.

Raven had always managed to find a way to hide her carrots in a napkin, or sneak away and follow them on a stolen pony. It was Raven's determined face. So Charles spoke quietly to Armando, asking him to make sure she didn't do anything stupid. Armando, beautiful soul he was, had solemnly agreed.

Then Charles had been escorted back to his cell, where he'd picked at his last supper of cold lamb and beans. He didn't relax until, an hour later, the prison bells sounded the chime that signaled a breakout. His beloved family would live.

It was enough. Enough to allow Charles to meet his fate without disgracing himself by crying and pleading. It would be so easy to beg. His Stepfather, the Governor, sat high up in the stands. If Charles yelled, his voice would carry his pleas for mercy and forgiveness.

It wouldn't work, of course, but it would give the audience a show. Cain in particular would love it.

So Charles suppressed the very human desire to beg and stood quietly as the priest did his thing, and then the judge stepped forth for the official sentencing. The words all blurred with the hum of the crowd around him. He'd heard the crimes read he day before and knew the ending, so he didn't bother listening. He caught his mothers eye briefly before she looked away to turn her face into Kurt's shoulder.

The hooded executioner stepped forward and laid the noose around his neck, the rope drooping against his collarbone before gloved hands tightened it against his chin. The judge droned, piracy, theft, kidnapping, etcetera.

The mob was growing louder. Anticipation building, the people were chanting. But it wasn't entirely an eager noise, as it normally was when a prisoner was moments away from the final plunge. A whisper of discontent laced the tone of the crowd. For this wasn't just another prisoner this was the young master Xavier. Many of the shopkeepers and officers had known him since he was a child, fresh off the boat from England.

There was Moira, the sword master's daughter who was a better fighter than every boy in the colony, her father with his hand on her shoulder, both of their faces mournful. The baker who had never failed to supply a treat when Charles came to visit his shop during his afternoon ride. The blacksmith who'd helped him fashion his first rapier, the stable master from the manor, his childhood tutor, these people were his friends and neighbours, not people who were happy to see him killed.

In one corner there even seemed to be a bit of a scuffle forming. Angry shouts rose above the hubbub but Charles' attention was ripped away when a crash and an alarmed shout sounded from behind him. The crowd grew louder, people pointing and shouting. Then warm breath fanned his neck and he felt the rope around his neck loosening.

The body pressed against his back filled the hole in his soul perfectly. He shivered before leaning back slightly, allowing his eyes to drift closed as he whispered the name that his heart had been screaming for days. Erik.

"Hello Charles." the man murmured in his ear, his unfashionably short hair ruffling against Charles' own as he ducked his head to put it through the noose, straightening so that now they both stood on the trapdoor, rope looped around both of their necks.

The noise around them rose to a crescendo. This was unprecedented and nobody knew what to expect next. Was this an escape attempt? An insane romantic gesture of defiance? Should they panic or rejoice?

Erik's arms came up to wrap around Charles, his chin perched on his shoulder. He was gripped with the sudden burning desire to look into the man's eyes, so he spun in his embrace, rope snagging briefly before he impatiently twisted it out of the way.

It had only been three weeks since Erik had disappeared from the distant Cuban beach, but the time apart had felt like eons. The taller man bent his neck to clear the height difference and lean his forehead against Charles'.

"Do you trust me?" the familiar rumble of Erik's voice warmed Charles' body and the words took him back to a night months ago, on moonlit waves scattered with stardust and they were dripping salt on the deck boards. Back then Charles had been the one to pose the question, teeth chattering from the sodden clothes sticking against the wind.

Charles lifted and leaned to return Erik's hold. Arms holding tight and pulling in a rush of bubbles. The giant chain slipping from grasping hands as Charles used all of his strength to pull the man in his arms away, just in time to avoid getting slammed by the heavy anchor as it whipped passed.

"It's okay, I've got you. Trust me."

Charles grinned and mouthed the words with him, against his lips. Beloved clear grey eyes crinkled and beamed warmly back before swinging away to glare into the crowd.

"This," Erik rumbled above the ruckus, silencing the crowd effectively, "This is disgraceful."

And the crowd hushed and listened. The judge, red-faced, had been trying to get their attention for the entire time now turned purple with rage when Erik managed to do it with one word.

The man, Charles recalled from the short time Kurt had insisted he study law like a respectable young man should, moved jerkily, yelling for the confused executioner to pull the lever that would send them both hurdling downward. But the crowd hissed as one to /let him speak!/ and one of the constables, hat askew on top of his dirty wig lunged and knocked him to the ground.

The crowd roared in victory and howled for Erik to be allowed to speak. The rest of the guards mill, conflicted and unsure, weapons drawn but limp at their sides.

Erik swelled, spirited with the support, and plunged onward, "You," he pointed at the executioner, who seemed to have stumbled backward against a familiar looking monk, "Would kill this man?" his hand rubbed a warm path down Charles' arm to seize his hand. "And you," now his finger swung to the judge, wheezing and pinned underneath the rouge guard, "Would sentence him for these fabricated crimes while Schmidt walks?"

"Insufficient evidence-" The judge gasped out and Erik snarled, actually snarled like some feral animal, making the other recoil.

"Then let me give you your evidence your honour," Erik sneered, and wiggled against Charles in order to pull his tunic out of his belt and flip it up to expose the mutilated flesh of his torso to the enraptured audience. "That man, Klaus Schmidt, Sebastian Shaw, whichever pleases you but believe that he is one and the same, murdered my parents."

Charles leaned against Erik as he spoke, wanting to broadcast all he was feeling, the love the relief the joy, through their skin. He felt the hard lump of Erik's locket against his neck, and leaned to press his lips to the oval dent.

"I sailed from Germany when I was ten years old." Erik said, grip on Charles' hands tightening to the point of pain, "We were headed for Ireland, not that long of a voyage. Long enough, however, for Klaus Schmidt to attack and sink the ferry we were on."

Charles had heard the story before, in bits and pieces across games of chess over bottles of rum. He'd seen the locket too, the photos inside yellowed with age. Beloved parents stolen away too soon.

"Five years I was held aboard the Höllenfeuer. Most of the time I was chained in the hold, only let out on deck when it suited your beloved Kapitän. Sometimes I would go weeks without seeing sunlight. Months."

"It was purely luck that I finally escaped, a careless sentry with a weakness for mead. I swam a mile to the shore. But I will always have these," he let his shirt fall back down, "To remind me of the evil that is Kapitän Schmidt."

"This- this changes nothing!" The judge huffed, face wobbling with rage, "The word of a...of a ruffian! And Mr. Xavier must still be held accountable for his crimes!"

"That's Captian Xavier." Erik snapped, "And what crimes? The crime of making his majesty's royal navy look like a bunch of incompetent buffoons? Of taking handfuls of coins from the bloated purses of corrupt traders and leaving them humiliated but alive? Maybe you think stealing the vessel Mystique, which, as a matter of fact, rightfully belongs to him, is an act of evil. Or maybe your mighty Governor is simply embarrassed that his own stepson ran off with the servant girl."

Charles hid his grin in Erik's chest when an indignant yelp sounded from the section where Kurt was seated. He was tempted to look over to see the expression on the man's face but he didn't want to risk bursting into hysterical laughter. It wouldn't help their case much if they changed his sentence to institutionalization.

"Charles Xavier is no more a criminal than the average merchant who overcharges for his wares." Erik announced loudly, ignoring Kurt's demands for their immediate seizure, "He is also the singular most good person I have ever met. He doesn't keep the pillaged goods for himself, but rather distributes them to various orphanages and hospitals throughout the colonies. He rescues homeless children and shelters then until he finds them a home. Charles Xavier has single handedly restored my hope for the human race."

Erik looked down into Charles' eyes and all he could do was look back. He was certain that he had the goofiest smile on his face but he couldn't bring himself to school his features. Erik was /back/ and he was saying these /things/. If they decided to kill him anyways at least Chalres would die happy.

"So!" Erik said, voice quieter so that the crowd had to remain perfectly silent in order to hear his next words, his eyes never leaving Charles' "You can choose to kill an innocent man today. But I can tell you now, you won't find yourself without opposition."

And with that the scaffold was suddenly quite crowded. Simultaneously a crippled slave, the constable holding the judge, a scrawny urchin, a man with blue hair, a gypsy girl who appeared to throw her baby straight up into the air, the burly monk and a scandalously dressed woman were scrambling forward to join the pair at the noose. Swords, daggers and guns glinted in the sunlight as they formed a tight circle around them.

"Scott!" the constable hissed, "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

"Me?" the urchin scowled, shaking his matted hair out of his eyes and shifting into a deeper crouch, the effect ruined when he nearly dropped his oversized saber. "What are you doing here? If you get caught they'll kill you!"

"You little twerp!" the gypsy girl interrupted, voice cracking suspiciously on the last word, "Give that back!" and he yanked the sword out of the smaller boy's hands.

"Focus you three." said he elderly slave evenly. For a man with snow white hair and wrinkles so deep they looked drawn on he had leapt up the stairs with impressive agility. He cocked his head toward the pair in the middle of the ring and said softly, "Sorry Charles, it seems that I failed to keep my promise."

"It's quite all right my friend." the captain replied breathlessly, "I know how she is when she gets an idea in her head."

"Hey!" snapped the fierce looking red-head, "I'm right here you know! And you had no right to make Armando promise such a thing. I'm not a child Charles and if I want to risk my life saving your arse it's my decision!"

"She's right Charles." Erik said with a toothy grin and he nodded at the woman, "You look wonderful by the way darling." That caused her to flush happily.

"Of course she's right," Charles muttered, almost to himself, shaking his head sadly, "And I'm beginning to think I've been wrong about a great many things. I'll have to make it up to you my dear."

"Yeah yeah, you can kiss my ass later. But more importantly, what the heck happened to your hair Hank?"

"Yeah bozo, it looks wicked! Were you planning on killing all the guards with laughter?" the constable jeered.

"You're one to talk," the gangly young man grumbled, glaring blearily at the other man, "Look at you, become a man of the law now are we?"

"All of you shut the fuck up or I'm using you as target practice instead of those assholes." the monk growled in a markedly unmonkly fashion.

"Logan-" the captain started, but the older man snapped at him too.

"You too Charlie, everyone just shut it. We need to figure out how to get out of here."

"We could try just walking-"

"You think that would work?" the constable asked dubiously.

"Worth a shot." the captain shrugged and shifted to lift the noose from around their necks. It dropped away and swung lazily beside them. "You there!" he addressed he nearest guard, or at least the nearest real one, "We're going to leave now. Please don't try to stop us as you'll find things will get rather messy if you do. We are going to go after Sebastian Shaw and bring him to justice. You have my word that we will leave your ships alone, and those of your allies."

The poor man's eyes widened and darted away, to where the judge was dragging himself off he floor to flail angrily in the prisoners' direction. Then to the stands where their illustrious Governor was purple with rage, contrasting starkly with his wife who had turned white as snow. He raised his sword minutely, and the motion drew howls of displeasure from the mob. The sword lowered again, the poor guard backing away from a massive man in smithing gear who advanced on him menacingly.

It was clear that if push came to shove, the crowd would be on their side. The thought warmed in Charles' chest and strengthened his crews resolve and as one they stepped down the stairs and through the parting crowd to the exit.

One foolishly brave officer attempted to stop them, lunging forward, rapier held out, but he was caught off balance by a slight auburn-haired woman who managed to shove him to the ground and press the blade of her own sword to his throat. She smiled softly and bent her head as they passed by her. Charles paused to rest his hand momentarily on her shoulder before moving on.

And then they were in the street, free of the crowd. They didn't let themselves break formation yet, but quickened their pace as they headed down the hill to the wharf where the Mystique was being held impounded.

They picked up speed until they broke into a run, the slope giving them momentum. Charles felt giddy, his left hand still clutching Erik's, never wanting to let go. Sean let out a whoop of excitement, and Scott laughed delightedly.

A premature celebration, Charles knew, the prison guards would alert the rest of the authorities as soon as they managed to get away from the incensed mob, and they'd be on them in a flash.

But with each loping stride they drew closer to the harbor, two blocks, one block, and then their boots hit boardwalk and they were clattering out across the wharf toward the small, sleek luxury yacht-turned pirate ship. The deep mahogany deck gleamed in the evening sun, welcoming them back home.

His crew scattered and sped to get the vessel sea-ready. Logan and Alex attended to the mooring lines, Sean and Scott darted up the rigging to release the deep blue sails. Armando was at the wheel, ready to steer them away from their would-be executioners.

Raven had disappeared down into the hold and now reemerged with an armful of guns. Charles plucked his gleaming white-silver musket from her, reveling in the familiarity of its weight in his hands. Beside him Erik did the same with his own black pistol, looking up to exchange a grin. They hurried up to the top deck together, and took up position at the rail.

On the quay, Alex was struggling with the last lines. Sean gave a shout from the mast, pointing into town. Charles peered into the streets and saw a platoon of mounted officers rapidly approaching. Charles and Erik exchanged a look, and Charles nodded, hefting his rifle onto his shoulder. Beside him, Erik and Raven raised their pistols.

The horsemen drew to an abrupt halt when the bullets hit the boardwalk in front of them. The leader in his double-breasted jacket stood in his stirrups to yell, "Stop in the name of the law! You are unlawfully procuring that boat and if you do not desist we will be forced to use lethal force to make you!"

The man opened his mouth to say more, but Charles peered down the sight and took his hat off with one shot. Startled, the officer unbalanced and fell off his horse, causing the creature to shy and unsettle the rest of the mounts.

"Ship." he called cheerfully, "This is a ship good fellow, and I would advise you to stop right there."

The company ignored the warning and tried to advance, so Charles shot off three more of their hats to convince them not to. On either side of him, Erik and Raven kept their guns trained on the men, loaded and cocked, ready. They didn't have quite the precision or range that Charles did but if the soldiers got to close they would shoot and they would kill. Their restraint now was out of respect for him, as it always was. They let him try first, to hold the horsemen at bay without drawing blood. It felt a little like parents humoring a child's fantastical whims.

The last lines were finally freed and Logan and Alex hurried over the rail, shoving off as best they could before leaping onboard. The gangplank splashed into the water beside the dock as they inched away.

Slowly, so slowly. Charles could see the sailers on a nearby square-rigger gathering to watch the proceedings, pointing at them and shouting. It wouldn't take long for word to get to them of who they were and they'd be on their tail in minutes. As they passed close to the larger ship's stern, Charles swung the muzzle of his gun toward it and fired off five consecutive shots. Sean cheered loudly when the main rudder shuddered and swung loose, main chain shattered.

That would hobble the massive ship, but not for long. They needed to pick up speed before one of the many other vessels moored alone the quay could be alerted. "Get those sails up!" he yelled at the boys in the rigging, "Alex give them a hand! We need more speed!

Under full sail the Mystique could outrun almost any other craft, but the boys only had half of the sails down. It would be close.

"Raven, stay here. Shoot at their feet if the try again, but I doubt they will." they were almost far enough out now that the men on the shore weren't a threat anyway, it was the other ships that they needed to focus on now, "Erik, come with me."

Raven nodded solemnly and shifted to get more comfortable against the balustrade. Charles allowed himself a moment to smile at her unquestioning obedience. There was a time not so long ago that she would have fought him on such a command. How far they'd come. He needed to remember to have a talk with her later, to apologize for all of his mistakes.

With Erik at his heels, Charles hurried down the steps into the hold. It was dark but there was no time to find a candle. He stumbled to the back of the room by memory and feel, groping for the wall and proceeding to knock sacks of grain and barrels of water to the ground until Erik struck a match and bathed them in dim gold light. Charles grinned sheepishly over his shoulder and picked his way around the mess he'd made, heading for the bulky black chest in the corner.

He wiped years of grim off the lock with his sleeve and fished the chunky bronze key from where it hung on a chain around his neck. His jailers wouldn't have allowed him to keep the thing so Charles had hidden it under his tongue when they searched him. He loathed the thought of the trunk's contents falling into the military's hands.

A cloud of dust obscured his vision upon lifting the lid, which Charles waved away impatiently. Inside was his father's legacy, years of work and research for the government stolen and hidden away where the corrupt leaders couldn't get at it.

"Are those...bombs?" Erik spoke up from his spot at Charles' shoulder, voice strained with surprise.

"Of a sort." He replied, stripping off his shirt to use as a makeshift sling and began carefully piling the metal cylinders. "They are full of chemicals, not explosives, designed to incapacitate. They will buy us time."

Erik snorted mockingly, but his tone was fond when he said, "Of course they are. Heaven forbid you simply blow the bastards up."

Charles spared him a withering glance before brushing past him, arms loaded with the bombs. The sound of Erik's laughter echoed through the hold.

It was so hard, having Erik here and safe beside him and not to simply curl around him. Every particle of Charles' being longed to touch and affirm that this was real, that Erik had come back to him. /Later./ he told himself, with a shiver of anticipation at what would come when they were safely away and alone.

They climbed back out of the hold. Onboard the other ship, the crew had snapped to action, apparently having been alerted to what was happening. The square-rigger was already prepped for sailing, all they had to do was push off and they'd give chase. Charles quickly set his bundle down at Raven's side. "Are those...?" she gaped, a grin creeping into her features.

Charles nodded and handed her one of the mango-sized devices. "Try to aim at least a few feet away from the people." he told her sternly, eyes flicking to Erik as well, "Non-explosive they may be, but there are some potent chemicals in these and I don't want to seriously injure any of them. Don't look at me that way, we can't afford a murder charge on top of everything else."

Their twin exasperated eye-rolls sparked another thrum of joy that Charles had to push aside in order to focus on demonstrating to them how to pull the pin, similar to a run of the mill grenade. Taking a moment to locate a clear patch of deck he drew back his arm and hurled the bomb across the water.

The sailers scattered and hit the deck, no doubt assuming that the bombs were lethal. Instead of blowing up on impact, the canister hissed loudly and emitted a pale cloud of smoke. The sailers who got caught in the cloud started coughing loudly, hunching over and clawing at their throats. Charles knew that the gas burned their eyes and hindered their breathing.

Erik and Raven followed his example, each heeding his request to try not to hit any of the crew. Distressed cries echoed off the water making Charles wince, and some of the sailers even leapt off the ship in favour of the cool water below. It's crew incapacitated, the ship wouldn't be following them.

The three of them remained crouched where they were, ready to throw as many of the bombs as necessary at any more would-be pursuers, but they didn't need to. It seemed the show of firepower had been enough to cow the authorities.

With the docks growing small behind them, the shoreline fading into the horizon, and nobody on their tail, the Mystique's sails billowed with a strong breeze and jumped forward, bow cutting the waves magnificently. They were at full speed and could finally relax. Above their heads Scott and Sean screamed victoriously along with the gulls.

Logan emerged from below deck, bald head gleaming but dressed in his usual rough-spun breeches, bare-chested and large leather boots clunking on the stairs. already a shadow of fuzz had appeared on his scalp and chin, he'd be back to his hairy self in no time.

In his hands he held a folded square of fabric, which he proceeded to toss in Charles' face. "Thought ya might want this." he grunted roughly before striding down the deck yelling for Scott to "swab the damn deck."

Charles smiled and unfolded the flag. He ran the deep blue fabric, salt stained and weathered to a shade close to grey, between his fingers lovingly. Raven's sleek red head fell to the juncture of his shoulder and she sighed heavily, as if she'd been holding her breath for a very long time. Actually, she probably had, in a way.

"I'm sorry I worried you." he murmured, pressing a light kiss to her brow. He felt her smile against his neck, but she was still trembling slightly, almost unnoticeable if Charles hadn't known her true steadiness for so many years.

"Just don't do it again," she grumbled, settling against his side, a beloved heat against the chill of the evening air, "You daft old man."

She laughed at Charles' affronted sniff, and from Charles' left Erik's deep chuckle joined her musical one. They sat together for a while longer, as their crew- their friends- settled into the motions of voyaging around them.

Then Erik rose, and Charles, who'd begun to doze lightly, drained from the day's action, startled into full wakefulness with a sick lurch, certain that if he left again he would never come back.

But Erik, outlined against the oranges and pinks of the setting sun turned back and held his hand out. "Come on Captain," he said quietly, as to not wake Raven, "Race you up the aft mast."

They pattered off down the gleaming mahogany boards wind tearing at their clothes and hair. Charles slipped slightly, on a patch wet from Scott's mopping. The fine buckled ankle-boots which the prison had supplied for his hearing and execution were ill-suited for the sleek deck of his ship. He skidded and, unbalanced started to fall. Then hands grasped his arms and steadied him.

"Careful Charles." Erik hummed in his ear and then darted away again, and really, he had no choice but to take chase.

"Must everything be a contest?" Charles gasped when he slid into place seconds after Erik, looping his feet through woven rope and holding firmly to the narrow crosstree, "Because if you keep beating me in front of my crew, I might just find myself facing a mutiny."

"Mmm, that's it. You've unveiled my devious plot to unthrone you, congratulations."

Charles couldn't see him- they were on opposite sides of the mast- but their arms lay against each other where they encircled the wood. The ropey muscles of Erik's arm were loose and relaxed against him.

Charles toed absently at the heel of his left boot. The things really were rubbish, he thought, and with that popped the offending footwear off and kicked it away, tumbling down into the waves below. It's mate followed soon after. Then the cream-coloured stockings were ripped off and caught the wind like a strange shapeless bird. Eventually he sat in only his loose under trousers, pale, knobby knees sticking out awkwardly in front of him.

"Where did you go?" the question slipped out without the consent of his brain, and he immediately clamped his jaw shut, so fast that his teeth clicked together loudly. It didn't matter, he told himself, foolish to ask, what if you don't like the answer? What if he runs again and leaves you all alone. Better not to ask.

But Erik seemed happy enough to answer, "Havana," He said, "I laid low for a few days, the city was crawling with officers after you and Shaw were captured. Once things quieted down I found a guy who was headed to the orient, looking for deckhands, thought I'd sign on. Thought that I could just go, earn a penny, move on and forget. I'm sorry Charles but I really thought I could."

"Your nature," Charles whispered, "I understand."

"But I still shouldn't have! When they got Shaw, all I could focus on was that I'd never get my revenge. I was so angry that I didn't think of you, and what they'd do to you." His voice grew tight, and Charles wished that they were in the privacy of his cabin, sitting face to face at the table, or pressed together in the bed so that he could provide proper comfort.

"The day before we were set to sail, I came to my senses," Erik continued, "And I booked on the first ship to Westchester. I arrived last night or else I would have come to get you much sooner. Charles I'm so sorry I should never have left you there, with Schmidt- Shaw, and all the boats-"

"Stop it Erik."

"I'll understand if you want me gone Charles, God knows I deserve it."

"My friend," Charles croaked, barely resisting the temptation to swing across the distance between them, "please stop putting words in my mouth. I am the captain and I say who deserves punishment and who does not."

Thankfully Erik stays quiet and they both take a moment to regain their composure. "I've said this before," Charles started slowly, picking idly at a chip in the cedar mast, "You need to stop hating yourself for every single thing that goes wrong in your life. Yes you left, but if you had stayed they would have gotten you too, and who would have rescued me?"

"The others seemed to have some sort of plan." Erik argued, but the heart had gone out of his fight.

"A dozen plans more like." Charles snorted, "All doubtlessly destined to fail. Brute force would not have worked, and no one but you would have thought to rally the town to our cause."

"You would have."

"Maybe." Charles laughed. Impossible to know. If Erik had been the one in his place, or Raven, it would have been unlikely that Charles would have been thinking rationally. "My plans do tend to lean toward idealism."

"Naïvety." Erik supplied automatically, an old argument.

"Optimism." Charles insisted.

They fell silent again, as the sun kissed the horizon, this time it was a peaceful lapse, no weighted questions between them.

When the green had flashed and the air turned cold, Logan's voice broke the quiet, "Hey lovebirds!" he called up to them, ham-like hands cupped around his mouth, "Hate to interrupt but I've gotta ask, where the hell are we even goin'?"

Charles grinned happily down at his insolent quartermaster as Erik muttered darkly, "So much for discretion."

Charles laughed aloud giddily and yelled back, "We'll be right down!" but Logan's gibe reminded Charles of the inevitable conversations that he'd need to have with his various crew members over the next few days. Raven especially would no doubt demand answers about the true nature of his and Erik's relationship. It was not a discussion that he looked forward to, as he was aware that she had developed her own feelings with Erik over the few months he'd sailed with them.

He grabbed the rigging and dropped down a bit recklessly, prompting Erik to curse and grab at his wrist. Charles rested his elbows on his companion's knees, feet hooked into the rigging, trusting the man to keep a grip on him. "So Mister Lensherr," he quipped, toying with the salt-stained hem of his vest, "What's our heading?"

Erik's eyes widened slightly, the first of the night's stars reflected in his eyes and his lips quirked into the crooked smile that Charles had missed so much. "You really trust me to make that decision? After everything I've put you through?"

"Of course." Charles said, "How else would I hunt down Shaw but listen to the expert?

"Hunt down..." Erik trailed off, grin becoming positively shark-like and his gaze became both wondering and hungry, "/Charles/..."

Charles felt his blood boiling beneath the thin casing of his skin, and the urge for the sanctuary of his cabin became suddenly that much more pressing. "Well?" he breathed, "What do you say? Master Howlett is waiting..."

"Fuck Master Howlett." Erik growled, hands around Charles' wrists tightening and pulling him closer, despite the logistical issues of their current location. As eager as Charles was, he really did need a heading to give Logan, so he squirmed back, leaning out over empty air.

"Charles /careful/!"

"Our destination?"

"Argh fine, infuriating twit. Argentina."

"Just Argentina? You'll have to be a bit more specific than that my friend-"

"Hang your specifics!" Erik barked, swinging down beside him, "Shaw has a plantation in Argentina which would be a logical place for him to head to after a scandal like this, we'll figure the rest out along the way. If you wanted a long and eloquent discussion you should have left your clothes on!"

"Not those drab things! Prison-issued garb is consistantly itchy. I couldn't stand it for another moment."

"And you speak from your rich knowledge of institutional norms?"

"Well, one can assume that they're all similar at least."

"Hmm I suppose you aren't wrong about that."

Above them the flag fluttered against the darkening sky, faded blue and dull yellow X, their own customized version of the notorious crossed-bones.

They picked their way slowly down the rigging, sniping at each other the whole way, none of the rush that they'd displayed on the ascent. After all, it would take them A couple months at least to get to Argentina, and who knows how long after that to actually get Shaw. They had time.


End file.
